Ancient Now

All things being equal -

organizing 50,000 protesters

to march for justice,

knitting a wool blanket

for a baby,

building a sustainable

earth-friendly outhouse,

painting plum blossoms in April,

taking this breath

with outrageous delight

as if it is the first -

all things, yes, being equal

and every act a sacrament,

all forms one mirage

in the still blue sky

of pure attention,

I give up searching

for vast significance

and look for the great

in the small.

On my fingertip

the dissolving beauty

of innumerable suns

in a snowflake.

The galaxy we're lost in

balanced on a snail's back.

The silver-blue Pin Wheel Nebula,

170,000 light years across,

inscribed on a moth wing.

Etched in silence

with ancient stories,

a horoscope of frost

at my window,

foreshadowing the shape

of eternity.

Here is my faith.

At the moment of death

I loaf in summer grass.

A ladybug lands

on the back of my hand.

What does it mean?

It is too beautiful to mean.

My heart, which for decades

has been breaking,

finally pries itself open.

Bees gather on pungent weeds,

bent into arches.

I gaze

down the unfathomable nave

of a green cathedral

while a hummingbird

wearing her crown

of imperial rubies

gathers my last breath

into the silken whisper

of invisible wings

and carries me so gently,

not into the other world,

but deeper

into this one.